Writing is my love, my work. My mind devours ideas and words then forces them onto the page, virtual and tangible. To still my restlessness, there is literature. Nourishment of the soul, particularly as I found myself turning 40 last month, grows more important.
An avid reader since my days as a toddler, my nightstand always holds at least four books. Herodotus is my constant companion, Ovidian my love. Ben Coes’ The Last Refuge quenched my thirst for intense, action filled thrillers. It is without question my favorite fiction in a decade. To satisfy my appetite for literature, I turned to DH Lawrence and was utterly satisfied.
For many years, I have much preferred DH Lawrence’s poetry to any of his short stories or novels. Honestly, his poetry holds a richness, a lushness in the language. His other writings are deeply inferior, and absurd in their obvious and eager pursuit of climax.
His poetry though, embodied in Self Pity or Liaison, or Pomegranate communicates. There is an awareness, a presence. It enchants, ignites. The compartmentalized nature of private life, the secrets we keep, the discretion with which we act provides a safety net. Like trapeze artists, we trust the net will hold. In Aware, quoted below, there is the private acknowledgement to self. There is little so exciting as the prospect of a new lover, or a lover’s passion rekindled, and our decision to surrender in the moment. Consequences be damned, at least we are aware.
Slowly the moon is rising out of the ruddy haze,
Divesting herself of her golden shift, and so
Emerging white and exquisite; and I in amaze
See in the sky before me, a woman
I did not know I loved, but there she goes and her beauty hurts my heart;
I follow her down the night, begging her not to depart.